A morning in Cornwall: an interlude
by TheBritishBourbon
Summary: Sherlock and John share a sunny morning in Cornwall while Sherlock recovers from all he endured in 'How Long'


**Hi there!**

 **This is actually an interlude between one work and another. The first work is 'How Long', and the second is being worked on right now. this won't make much sense if you haven't read 'How Long', so i suggest you do!**

 **this is just a short, sweet oneshot of John and Sherlock's life post-'How Long', and just a glimpse of some of the things we might see in the sequel. I hope you enjoy!**

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John pads to the front door with a sigh, his shoulder aching more than usual this morning. Perhaps he had slept in a bad position last night? Possibly, although it probably has something to do with the fact that Sherlock had slept snuggled close into his chest through the night, head resting on John's shoulder. Yes, that is probably why. It is worth the pain though.

John peers through the peephole in the door before he opens it, giving a short smile to the man who stands there, holding a parcel.

"Sherlock's books, sir. All checked and cleared." Says the man. He is one of Mycroft's guards, one of the younger recruits, but incredibly cautious and professional.

"Thank you, Billy." John says, taking the parcel from him.

Billy nods and retreats from the door, fiddling with the earpiece in his ear. John closes the door again, and yawns as he pads back down the hallway and up the creaking staircase and to the small upper level. The cottage itself is compact, but it is upstairs where it gets really cosy, with only one bedroom and one bathroom. John appreciates this quaintness, and he knows sherlock does too; the size is small enough to make him feel safe, but not too cramped and dark as to bring back memories of basements and mould and damp.

The bedroom is rather dark, the mid-morning light glowing behind the curtains. They had been having a lie-in, John dozing until his phone had trilled with a text notifying him of the delivery of the parcel. Sherlock is still asleep as John steps back into the room and closes the door behind himself, arms flung out in the space John usually occupies and overgrown curls flung across the pillows, with one strand flopping over a closed eye. John smirks to himself as he steps towards the bed, slowly sinking down onto the mattress, gently resting a hand on the top of Sherlock's head.

"Sherlock." He says gently, massaging his scalp gently.

Sherlock hums and shifts on the bed but doesn't come fully awake. John calls his name again, trailing his hand down from Sherlock's head to his neck and his shoulder blades, tracing a circle with his fingers.

"Hmmph." Sherlock says, and finally his eyes blink open, wincing slightly against the light from the curtains. John watches as his brain comes online again, going through the motions of understanding that he is in Cornwall, and that he is safe, as it does every morning. Sherlock looks up to John, blinking heavily, and John uses a finger to pull the strand of hair away from in front of one of Sherlock's eyes, tucking it behind the man's ear.

"Your books came." John says, smiling.

Sherlock's eyebrows raise and a gleam of pleasure appears in his eyes. He pulls himself up onto his knees on the bed, bringing the sheets with him to wrap around his shoulders. John pulls himself further onto the bed as he passes Sherlock the parcel, sitting cross-legged on the bed, across from his partner.

"Took them long enough." Sherlock mutters, and John smirks.

"Well, we are in the middle of nowhere." He reasons.

Sherlock ignores him as his fingers dexterously open up the package. Those fingers are still too spindly, lacking in much fat at all. If there is one thing Sherlock has been struggling with in the two months they have been at the cottage, it is putting on weight, but John doesn't want to push him, even if it makes nerves flare up in his stomach.

John suddenly has a face-full of cardboard as Sherlock gets the parcel open and its contents spills out onto his lap. He chucks the packaging to the floor and watches with utter happiness as Sherlock's face lights up, like a child at Christmas, as he surveys his new belongings.

Sherlock has spent the last few days compiling a list of the best books on the life and works of Claude Monet that he can find, which he has subsequently had John order Gregson, the head of their security, to put through as an order to Amazon. He had devoured the books Mrs Hudson had given them upon their departure from London, reading them until the spines were weakened and a few pages of one book had come loose. John had suggested to Sherlock that Mycroft was sure not to mind if he wanted to order as many books as he wanted. Sherlock had blinked for a moment at that, looking stunned, until he had come back to himself and remembered where he was, nodding his head and smiling, although his cheeks had flushed red with embarrassment. John wished then, and he does now, that Sherlock would not feel embarrassed about the habits he still sometimes slipped back into from his 'time away', as John was calling it.

"What are the odds you'll have all these read within a week?" John jokes as Sherlock flicks through all the books excitedly. There are only five books, Sherlock declaring those the magnum opuses of the list he had compiled, and John is sure they will not last long, and soon Gregson will have to do another order to Amazon, all on Mycroft's card. Not that that was a problem.

"Hmm, pretty high. Although, I'm not sure with which to begin." Sherlock says, and he sniffs at the pages of one of the books, making John laugh. Sherlock glances up and shrugs his shoulders.

"They smell nice." He explains.

John nods and picks up one of the books himself, a heavy tome that, when he flicks through, is dense with words and pictures. He spots a picture of _Impression: Sunrise_ and his stomach jolts in surprise. The painting itself hangs in the living room downstairs, where Sherlock and John can admire it as they relax on the sofa. They have to be careful to keep it out of direct sunlight, but its neglect is not a worry: Sherlock treats it as though it is his child.

"I think I'll start with this one." Sherlock declares, holding up one of the books.

"I would ask if I can borrow one, but I think this might be a bit high-brow for me." John says lightly, placing the book he has been holding back down on the pile on the bed. Sherlock shrugs again, but doesn't say anything, too preoccupied by whatever is on the page he is reading.

John pats his shin and clambers from the bed, stretching out a bit. "I'll start on breakfast. Come down when you're ready, yeah?"

Sherlock nods absentmindedly but doesn't look up from the book. John smiles and pads from the room, heading down the stairs and to their cosy kitchen. It may be small, but it is kitted out with the best appliances on the market, all courtesy of Mycroft, and overlooks their garden and, beyond that, the Atlantic Ocean, the waves calm and shimmering today in the sunlight.

John starts up the kettle and pulls out two mugs, ready for tea. He then puts a pan to the stove and adds a small drop of oil to the pan and lets it heat up. He is determined to have Sherlock eat today, and pancakes are a sure way to get that to happen.

He is just whisking up the batter with a fork when he hears footsteps on the stairs, and it is not long before Sherlock wanders in, carrying all five of his new books in his arms. He has chucked on a burgundy roll-neck jumper, and it has ridden up, baring the t-shirt beneath. John reaches out and pulls the jumper down before he runs a hand through Sherlock's hair, smoothing it back.

"Are you going to let me brush this later?" He asks, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Yes, mum." He mutters. John smirks and nods approvingly before turning back to sorting breakfast.

Sherlock places down the book he has chosen to read and then heads through to the living room, which can only be accessed by going through the kitchen, and is separated by an archway, as to give the space a much more open and bright look.

John watches discretely from his place at the stove as Sherlock goes to the bookshelf up against the wall next to the slate fireplace and, almost reverently, places his new books next to Mrs Hudson's and the one he had kept with him during his 'time away'. he stands back and admires them there, and John can only wonder what this means for Sherlock, to now have this collection of books which belong to him, a sure sign of the changes that have taken place ever since the deaths of Moran and Moriarty. He is trying his best to get better, although there are, of course, days on which things are worse, but to have tangible proof of the positive changes that are happening must be invaluable. John smiles as Sherlock straightens his spine, standing a bit taller, feeling a burst of warmth in his chest.

The sizzling of the pancake in the pan diverts his attention, and he scoops the freshly made food out of the pan and onto a plate. This first one will be for Sherlock; he will always come first in John's eyes, and John counts himself extremely lucky to have Sherlock here, healing in mind and body every day, to share in these beautiful morning moments.

"Sherlock! Breakfast!" he calls and turns to care for the man he loves.

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 **Hope you enjoyed, please leave a review if you'd like!**

 **look forward to the sequel to 'How Long' relatively soon!**


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